Agility is a difficult thing to grasp
by JohnlockPotterlockWholock
Summary: Sherlock AU. Sherlock's got a pretty bad stutter (don't worry, he's still very much the same Sherlock) and when he meets John Watson, something happens that even he can't explain. (Rated M for eventual smut. #guiltynotguilty.)
1. Chapter 1: we'll Give Him a try

Eight-year-old Sherlock Holmes cowered at the center of a daunting crowd consisting of third-graders, fourth-graders, and even a few fifth-graders. This was not, however, a delighted group of impressed children praising the young Sherlock. This was a sinister, ridiculing bunch. Every child was chanting something in unison. It sounded like a horrible creature whose harsh voice spoke out in many tones and pitches. The judgmental cacophony pressed in on the young Holmes as he backed into a corner.  
"STUTTERLOCK, STUTTERLOCK!" Was the tormenting name emitting from the mass of children.  
"Y-yo-you guys are mah-mean!" Sherlock struggled to shout over the chanting, his mouth repeatedly opening and closing, the words only coming out broken and sparse. His attempt to defend himself had only caused a wave of laughter to erupt from the children.  
"Whatcha gonna do, Stutterlock?" One chided above the din. "G-g-gape at us?" More laughter.  
It was too much. Sherlock ran for it. He knocked over a small sandy-haired kid in his hurry but didn't bother to apologize. He knew it would take too long, and the kid would probably just make fun of him, too. Everyone did.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It had been four years since that circle of vulture-like children had tormented him, and the teasing hadn't relented. At home, Sherlock was very cordial and excited to share his knowledge with the family. He was very interested in science and fighting crime. He seemed to think they went hand in hand. He spent the majority of his free time exploring the woods behind his big, old house.

At school, his only goal apart from his work was to not exist. To never be noticed. To never speak and sit at the back of all his classes and never raise his hand to ask questions or to read aloud to the class. Everyone hated him. Everyone. Well, except for that weird kid who never said anything either. Sherlock's personality completely changed from an open and enthusiastic child who spoke often despite his rather bad stutter, to a completely antisocial, depressed little creature. Never venturing from under the little dark rock that was his slightly suicidal life. Instead of school teaching him to be a positive person, it taught him that the only good he could do was keep his mouth shut and not hinder _normal_ people with his annoying stutter. Despite his efforts to stay unnoticed, however, there was the occasional jock that came and slammed him into a locker, even though Sherlock was very fit and larger than most of his bullies. He simply didn't feel like making the effort to stand up to them. it wasn't like ha actually cared.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Sherlock was now twenty years of age and in the middle of his third year at uni. Here, he was still the same inward, shy boy from primary school. It's not that people genuinely hated him as they had when he was young, it was just that being quiet and hiding in the shadows had become part of his personality in public. When he was with someone who liked him, he was a talkative ball of energy and ideas. He was constantly following mysteries he heard about in the news and had a bad habit of saying what was on his mind without thinking.

Sherlock felt that he would have to start to open up a little more if he was going to live on his own after uni, and was gradually coming out of his shell (he still was very socially awkward and mostly silent). He even asked out a boy he fancied once. It went very awry, but Sherlock, surprisingly, did not fall back into his previous depressed state. He graduated uni as a more positive-however completely oblivious to social cues and generally just bad in social situations-person.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was only when "Stutterlock" Holmes was twenty nine and working at Bart's one day when his entire life changed. He was closely examining a fleck of nail polish under a microscope for his latest case with Scotland Yard, when he received a text from Mike Stanford, an annoying older man who worked in one of the departments at Bart's.

**Hi, Sherlock. I'm going to pay you a little visit this afternoon. I've got someone you might be interested in meeting. -MIKE**

Sherlock didn't take this into consideration much. Whoever mike thought Sherlock would be "interested in meeting" would probably end up being mind-numbingly boring. And Sherlock really didn't think he wanted to deal with his stutter.

When afternoon came round, the door to the lab where Sherlock was working swung open without a knock, and in came Mike. Behind him was a sandy haired man Sherlock vaguely recognized, sporting gauze around his left shoulder. (Army doctor. Discharged because of injury.) Sherlock's mind was working ten times faster than his eyes which flashed up and down his acquaintance for mere seconds.  
"Hello," The man said tentatively. His voice was pleasant, but It dripped with worry and uncertainty of his situation.  
"Yes, hello...?" He was pleased that he'd managed his first sentence without a stutter and waited for the man to tell him his name.  
"John. He said holding out his hand. "John Watson." Sherlock glanced at John's hand but did not shake it. He noticed John's eyebrows knit slightly as he let his arm fall, but his smile did not fade. "So um, Mike here said he knew a guy looking for a flat share when I said I needed a place to stay so I guess, here I am." He s rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his shoes. Sherlock was entirely unresponsive. "I mean if you don't want to- I mean if you don't think. We don't have to y'know." John just wanted to put that out there in case Sherlock decided he utterly detested John. He had been afraid of that and Sherlock's somehow judgmental silence seemed to be confirming his fears.  
"Can ah-I borrow y-your ph-pho-one? Sherlock suddenly asked.  
"Sure." John seemed not to notice or care about Sherlock's stutter and simply held out his phone, a kind smile once again playing on his lips. (Interesting. No response to stutter. We'll give him a try)  
"Well," Sherlock clapped his hands together and went to put on his long coat. "I'll see y-you at s-seve-seven to look at th-the flat."Sherlock made for the door and was halfway out when John called after him.  
"Wait! I don't know the address! I don't even know your name." John waved his hands expressively as Sherlock hung on the door.  
"The names Sherlock Holmes the address is 221B Baker Street. He winked and swept out of the room, his coat whipping theatrically around the door after him.  
And boy, was Sherlock happy. That was the longest sentence he had aver said without stuttering. Something about John made him feel sure. Everything from John's posture to the way he pronounced his letter 's' made Sherlock feel like his jaw was sturdy, made his rubbery, useless tongue feel agile and deft. Which was saying something. For someone with a stutter as sever as Sherlock's, agility was a difficult thing to grasp.


	2. Chapter 2: the worst and best decision

"This is the pl-place," Sherlock said, handing some money to the cabbie and stepping out onto the pavement. He and John walked up to the door, which was opened immediately by a kind-faced woman in a plum-colored dress and an apron.  
"Sherlock!" She said sweetly, pulling him in for a quick hug before ushering them both through the door.  
After much fussing and exclaiming how much Sherlock had grown (despite the fact that he was a fully grown man) from Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, the two men walked around in the small flat, almost sizing it up.  
"This could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John said walking behind the sofa and examining the items upon the mantelpiece. Finally he plopped himself down in a chair, Sherlock following by sitting gently on the sofa. The taller man fixed his crisp eyes on the man before him, his seemingly x-ray gaze never faltering on John.  
"S-so John," Sherlock began, once Mrs. Hudson had left. "Why hav-haven't you sa-said anything about I-it?" John looked confused and he licked his bottom lip pensively.  
"I'm sorry I don't understand. Have I done something wrong already?" He looked genuinely concerned that he may have caused a problem and it made a warm feeling bubble in Sherlock's stomach.  
"The stu-tter. You haven't said anything abou-about it. Why?" Sherlock was trying his damnedest to deduce what it was that was keeping John from at least acknowledging his stutter. Most people either showered him with false pity or understanding. But maybe John wasn't like most people. The detective hoped that was the case.  
Sherlock watched John sit with a soft half-smile before he answered.  
"It's never been a problem. I mean I thought you rather didn't like when people pitied you." John crossed his legs and leaned back I'm his chair. He brought his hand up to his chin and eyed Sherlock curiously.  
"Y-you speak as though we-we've met bef... OH!" Sherlock's mind zoomed back to the past. The sandy haired boy he bumped into when he was running from that mass of taunting children, the only boy who never made fun of him, the boy who gave him slight smiles in the halls and sat at the table nearest his empty one at lunch. "John." It was barely a whisper.  
"John you are AMAZING!" Sherlock leapt from his seat and pulled John to standing by his hands. He put his hands on the shorter man's shoulders and smiled at him.  
"Wh- Sherlock what just happened here? Did I... Did I miss something?" Sherlock squeezed John's shoulders slightly and grinned wider.  
"It's you! You're him! You were the nicest boy is ever met at school even though we'd never even spoken to each other because you were a year above me!" When John looked confused Sherlock dropped his hands by his sides and sighed. "Do you remember that day when you were in third grade and I bumped past you and didn't say sorry? Or when you smiled at me in the hall?" John made noises of agreement but Sherlock didn't give him time to actually answer. "Do you realize how much that meant to me? You were the only one who didn't make fun of me or pity me. You just treated me like anyone else which was exactly what I've wanted people to do my entire life!" Sherlock stuck his hands in his wild hair and barely suppressed the urge to hop up and down. He looked at John, though, and settled down. John was giving him the most incredulous look Sherlock had ever seen. "What? What is it?" John just stood stiff as a board before finally opening his mouth to speak. When he did his voice was hoarse and utterly... surprised sounding.  
"You just... Do you realize how much you've just said without a single stutter. And you've said it faster than even I can speak! That. Was. Amazing!" John's face cracked into a smile that gave Sherlock that weird feeling in his gut again.  
"John! It's you! You make me speak fluently! I don't know why but I will definitely be going into further study about that. It happened back at Bart's too when I gave you my name and address." he returned his hands to his hair and spun around on the spot. "Something about you makes me speak without the stutter! It could be the sound waves your voice sends out triggering something in my left frontal lobe or" and he was off, spewing out stuff John could only register as 'sciency facts and stuff '. John stood there, smiling, watching this brilliant, crazy, wonderful man speak like an auctioneer, despite his dreadful stutter, about stuff John could barely understand because of their complexity. He looked around the flat; boxes and books made a sort of labyrinth which Sherlock was now wending his way through to the kitchen, still mumbling something about the occipital lobe. The soldier sat down in his chair again and thought to himself, living with this man could be the worst and the best decision he's ever made.


	3. Chapter 3: So Taught you could Snap it

John settled himself into Baker Street in about a weeks time and never regretted it a minute. He loved living with this mad genius and he loved chasing thugs around London. He loved how he could occasionally see Sherlock's soft and vulnerable side through all his icy indifference, and he loved how Sherlock's stutter lessened around him. That was just a miracle. Sherlock insisted it was science, and John simply went along with it because he didn't have a clue what it could be. John also found himself admiring things about Sherlock that he scolded himself for seconds after he realized he was doing it. These were things like the little smiles Sherlock occasionally flashed, the excitement he tried to contain when there was a good case, his impeccable style and the way his hips swayed when he walked and how the buttons strained on his purple shirt and- that's when John would give himself a firm shake and continue going about his business. John was having difficulty accepting that he did fancy Sherlock. But he would never try to discuss this subject with the detective. He had been so embarrassed when he let the question slip out at Angelo's. 'do you have a boyfriend?'. And Sherlock even thought John was hitting on him. The doctor made a mental note never to let something like that happen again. Ever. Sherlock made it very clear that he was not interested in anything of that sort. John would just have to contain himself. But then he had to factor in that Sherlock was the most observant man in the world and would figure John out in due course. So John decided to always have a lady friend. Always have a date for Sherlock to interrupt. That would work, yes.  
Sherlock was so pleased to have John with him all the time. Pleased was an understatement. Thrilled was, too. Sherlock was positively /bursting/ with glee that John was staying with him. But of course John didn't know that. John didn't know a lot of things, like how Sherlock felt dizzy when John smiled at him, or how when John's back was turned Sherlock would stare longingly at him. Sherlock had not known he was so interested in John when they had dinner at Angelo's. He turned John down so coldly he could never go back on what he said. Ever. But it didn't matter anyhow because he had misinterpreted what John meant when he asked, 'do you have a boyfriend?'.  
It was a dreadful Saturday evening. The people were out and about, the weather was lovely, and the city buzzed with activity. Sherlock, however, was in the sourest of moods. He had been on a case and very pleased with it at that, when he got a call from Lestrade saying the suspect had killed the next suspected victim and then commit suicide herself. Sherlock was completely wrong on his theory and was absolutely livid.  
"Argh _how _can I have b-been so wrong!" He said through gritted teeth. He was flopped upside-down over the back of the sofa, his head hanging next to where John was sitting and reading. "I wa-was su- ure I had it! I'm not sup-p-posed to be wrong, ever!" John looked over at Sherlock's face, upside-down.  
"You can't expect to never make a mistake, ever. I mean you've got to mess up a few times. You're only human."  
"Uh, another te- tedious human error. _mistakes_. Ho- ho- how annoying." Sherlock's face was in a disgruntled pout when he said this. Clearly he did not think himself on the low level of 'mistake making'.  
"If it makes you feel any better, you've probably made the least actual mistakes out of the majority of the rest of the world. " John said, resisting the urge to run his hand over the exposed skin beneath Sherlock's chin.  
"Y-yes I'm-m aware of that." The lanky man quipped. "It's that fact that makes th-this so infuriating."  
"Well what do you want me to do about it?" John asked exasperatedly.  
Sherlock wished he could ask John to kiss him until he forgot all about this mess. Then he realized what he was thinking and actually slapped himself in the face.  
"NO." He scolded himself aloud.  
"Wh- Sherlock why have you just slapped yourself?" John raised an eyebrow at his flatmate and let his hand fall from his book.  
"Just angry." Sherlock said quickly. God he was making more a fool of himself every second. He needed to get out of here before he did something worse.  
"Well don't let it out on your face." John didn't say, _because its too lovely_.  
Sherlock rolled off the couch deftly and slunk away to his bedroom. John watched his curly head as he shut the door. God this was getting bad.  
"I'm going out!" John called, loud enough that Sherlock would hear him from his room. He shouldered on his jacket, grabbed his keys and fled the flat. He was beginning to think he might not be able to contain himself for much longer. Sherlock was just always there. Always with him to flaunt what John couldn't have with him.  
Sherlock was sure he must be going mad. His brain felt so disorganized. Like some blonde bandit in a stripy jumper had come and rifled through all his carefully categorized files of information and strewn papers everywhere. Sherlock needed his mind-Mrs. Hudson to come and pick up his mid palace. John had made an absolute mess of it. He had made an absolute mess of Sherlock. As much as he hated John for that, Sherlock couldn't deny that he really cared for and was attracted to the man. _dammit_.  
John came back to the flat with a fresh mind and fresh attitude. He had a plan. He was going to be as subtle as possible and just indulge himself in watching Sherlock and thinking of him. He decided that trying to ignore his feelings just made him tense and irritable. He had to be as free as possible with his attraction without Sherlock finding out. Right. This was going to be hard.  
John settled himself in his armchair with his book when Sherlock emerged from his room... In just a sheet. Was this a habit of Sherlock's? Right. This was John's first test.  
"John." Sherlock said, by way of greeting. His voice sounded even more velvety than usual to John. Shit.  
"Why are you wearing a sheet?" Was John's answer.  
"Why wear cl-clothes when you don't ha-have t-to?" Sherlock was standing in front of the window as the sun made the flat glow gold, his sheet-draped silhouette looking like a Greek sculpture.  
"Are- so you're saying... Are you wearing any pants?" John had to consciously keep his mouth shut. Sherlock in nothing but a sheet. Standing outlined by golden light. Jesus fuck.  
"...No." Sherlock replied turning his head and looking at John from the corner of his eye. John swore he saw a smirk flit across his cherub mouth.  
They both exploded with laughter. They sat laughing until the golden hour had passed and the sky was a soft indigo. Finally their laughter subsided into the occasional chortle, and then dissolved into quiet. A very awkward quiet.  
"Your stutter's improved a lot." John said, to fill the silence. Sherlock hummed in answer and got his violin from next to the bookshelf. He rested it on his shoulder and began to play while somehow managing to keep his sheet on. He played a song that sounded exactly how John felt. It began abruptly and was filled with busy notes and chords. It jumped from high to low but still maintained a sort of simpering sweetness throughout the whole song.  
"Did you compose that?" John asked when Sherlock finished. Sherlock only nodded his head yes. The tension was like a thread so taught you could snap it.


	4. Chapter 4: Damn Him

"Come o-on, John." Sherlock was walking in great strides and John had to jog to keep up. John was feeling act weary about this case. Well, about what they were about to do for this case. Sherlock needed information from a specific person; a cranky, old man with a stroke. _Great_, thought John. Sherlock wasn't exactly charming. Well, that wasn't true. He could e very charming when he wanted to be. Usually though, he was so engrossed in his case that being charming simply wasn't on his list of top priorities. They had walked to the old folks home from the Yard despite the chilly weather, and John was glad to step into the warm building, though still dreading what was to come. When they were outside the elderly man's door, John coughs Sherlock by the sleeve of his coat. "What?" Sherlock hissed impatiently.  
"Look, just try to be decent. This man's about to kick the bucket any way so at least pretend you're polite." John looked earnestly into Sherlock's face. His catlike eyes were flitting between John and the door.  
"Fine." Sherlock said with a slight growl, which John tried not to register as just plain sexy.  
As they stepped through the door, John jumped slightly when Sherlock gave John's hand a slight squeeze before releasing it as John relinquished his grip on the detective's sleeve.  
"Hello, Mr. Lythgoe. How are you?" John looked at the detective in surprise when he greeted the old man. The old man plucked up his glasses from the nightstand and fixed them on the bridge of his nose, now peering at them accusatorially.  
"What are you here for?" He said through a thick Scottish accent and slight wheezing.  
"We're here to inq-inqui-inquire about wh-what you saw whi-le out yes-yesterday." Sherlock inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose. John could tell Sherlock was frustrated about his stutter.  
"That's quite a nasty stutter there, lad. Y'might want yer friend to do the talkin' " _oh_ _dear_, thought John. That was not good. It was inevitable that Sherlock would drop the nice act. How could this be going so terribly already? Sherlock hadn't even gotten to the questions. It was time for desperate measures. John darted his hand out and took hold of Sherlock's. he didn't care what people would think (even though they were only in the presence of this old man), anything to maybe slightly distract Sherlock or soothe him. John wasn't sure which was happening, but Sherlock lifted his chin slightly and spoke again, seemingly not phased.

"I'm f-fine, thank you. May we ask you a few questions, sir?" The old man nodded and gestured to two chairs nearer his bed.  
Things went much better than expected. Sherlock was polite, he got the answers he needed, and his stutter remained under control. Occasionally throughout the conversation, Sherlock would get his vowels stuck in his throat, but John would give his hand a little squeeze, or run his thumb along the back of Sherlock's hand, and he would take a deep breath, and begin again.  
The attention and care John gave Sherlock concerning his stutter was what he should've been given as a child, and he may have grown out of his stutter, were that the case. Sherlock loved John for everything he did, and hoped that maybe he would one day rid himself of the stutter.

It was the evening after the meeting with Mr. Lythgoe, and Sherlock had successfully wrapped up the case with the information he acquired. John was now in the kitchen making tea. He was so ready to hunker down and numb his mind with a little crap Telly. He was making his way to the sofa when he felt a pair of long, slender arms slither round his waist. John nearly dropped his mug.  
"Sherlock?" He peered over his shoulder only to almost have his face collide with Sherlock's as he was setting his chin down on John's shoulder. John was about to say something more when Sherlock sighed out a long, warm breath onto his neck and John felt like he was going to seep right through the floorboards and start dripping onto the first floor. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't like that.  
"Thank you. For helping me today." Sherlock's voice was a low, velvety purr and as John thought he could stay in Sherlock's arms for eternity, the taller man slipped off John and slunk silently back into his room.  
Well.  
That was.  
John dumped his tea into the sink and went up to his room. He didn't feel much like tea and Telly anymore. He felt like curling up in his bed and imagining what life might be like if he could be with Sherlock. He knew he shouldn't do things like that, that it would just make things harder when he came back to reality, but he couldn't help himself.  
John woke up the next day in his clothes and shoes, still curled up on top of the sheets how he left himself the night before. His this was terrible. Sherlock was ruining him. _Damn_ him.  
Sherlock didn't know why he did it. Well, he knew it was a thanks to John for holding his hand and helping him through his stutter, but he didn't know why he _let_ himself do it. He wasn't supposed to be indulging in his urges to do such things. John didn't want that. But why had John no pushed him away and not defended his heterosexuality as he usually would? Sherlock sat in his closet, crouching by some shoes as he pondered these things. He thought about what might happen if he just kissed John out of the blue. Would he be angry and leave Sherlock? Or would he blush and act like it need happened. Sherlock could only pretend that maybe John would kiss back. John just didn't want that. It made Sherlock's heart ache. _John_ made Sherlock's heart ache. _Damn_ him.  
Sherlock looked up from his microscope at the sound of a knock on the door. It was one quick knock. Sharp, high pitched. _Mycroft_.  
Sherlock leapt from his stool and hopped up the stairs to John's bedroom.  
"John, my brother is he-here." He called outside his door. He waited until he could hear movement confirming that John was awake before he dashed down the stairs, quickly unlocked the door behind which the British government stood, and and scurried to sit on the couch and appear to be lost in thought before his brother even turned the doorknob.  
Lo and behold, Mycroft strode in the moment Sherlock's hands reached his lips in his typical thought position.  
"Really Sherlock I don't think you should waste your effort on appearing to be in your mind palace wen I arrive. It simply won't work. You'll have to speak to me eventually." He sniffed loudly, sat down in John's chair (_John's chair_), and leant his umbrella against he coffee table.  
Sherlock's eyes flew open and landed right on his Mycroft.  
"What is you want, your majesty? Oh, and we're fre-esh out of cake so don't ge-get any ideas. Although it wou-wouldn't matter now seeing as you've o-o-bviously failed at ke-eping up with your diet." Mycroft raised an impatient and possibly slightly embarrassed eyebrow but ignored the insult.  
"I'm here to see how your speech impediment is doing and, from what I can see you're doing very well. Was considering hiring a speech therapist but seeing as you've made steady progress, perhaps it won't be necessary." At this, Sherlock whipped himself into sitting and was sucking short breaths through gritted teeth.  
"I am _not_ a chi-child, Mycroft. My speech diso-order is not an excuse for you to treat me like one!"  
At that moment, John came hurrying down the stairs. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, and his hair was much more unkempt than was typical of him. Curious.  
"What's going on? John said, slightly still slurred from sleepiness.  
"My over-erpr-protective brother is deciding to tre-eat me like a four-year-old." John raised his eyebrows and sat heavily next to Sherlock on the sofa.  
"Do not talk about people as though they aren't in the room, Sherlock it doesn't suit you." Mycroft's words were like poison darts.  
"This is exa-actly what I'm taking about. You can't just show u-up at my flat to try to re-raise me be-because mummy and daddy did a terrible job of it!" Sherlock was almost standing now, and was much too loud for the distance between him and his brother. As soon as the words left Sherlock's mouth Mycroft snatched up his umbrella and sprung from where he was seated.  
"John, if you would be so kind as to help Sherlock whenever he needs it.." He didn't bother making a complete sentence and just fled the flat without even a curt nod.  
The room buzzed as though there were particles of the argument still floating in the air. John looked over to Sherlock and was surprised to see not a smug, satisfied face, but a slackened, distraught one. Sherlock had clearly gone too far this time. Mycroft had not even tried to defend their parents. The brothers probably did not have the best childhood. That explained why Mycroft hadn't exactly turned out ship-shape either. Of course, he seemed all high-class, manners and attitude, but when it came down to actually interacting with other people, the elder Holmes was pretty much rubbish. John glanced at Sherlock again and let a (thankfully) barely audible gasp escape him. Sherlock's eyes were brimming with tears begging to be spilt, but Sherlock was clearly trying to hold them where they were.  
It happened so soon, John didn't even remember making the decision to do it. But the look on Sherlock's face made John's heart feel like it was filled with slowly cooling asphalt. John lifted Sherlock's chin with his fingers, causing the detective to blink and the tears to be let loose, running like magma down those porcelain cheekbones. "It's not your fault", he said, barely above a whisper. John brushed the tears away with his other hand and then pulled Sherlock into his chest where he cooed nonsense at him until Sherlock stopped shuddering with suppressed sobs. What surprised John maybe even more than his own lack of restraint with letting his affection show, was the fact that Sherlock didn't protest at all. Just let John soothe him until he felt ready to slink back to his microscope. He guessed that was a good sign. But a sign of what? Oh, hell this was frustrating.


End file.
